Late night, early morning
Lights firing inside my head,
perhaps, afraid one day they will go out.
I follow her constant breathing, with envy at each effortless sigh,
hoping soon my mind will wander or be distracted by morpheus touch.
I turn, torturing myself,
Processing, clearing, exploring yesterday and the day ahead.
I hope for rest, but a pretension lives on,
where this malady is some inspirational disease.
I fear it is a curse.